


Inktober 2019

by smithandrogers



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Suicide, Multi, Red Dead Redemption 2 Spoilers, Red Dead Redemption Spoilers, Sadness, This is for Inktober except i'm writing the prompts, Wholesome, i will update the tags with every entry, legendary gunslingers, voice kink? voice kink., we got some soft charthur here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-11-09 01:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 6,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20845649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smithandrogers/pseuds/smithandrogers
Summary: 1. Ring: The journey of the ring Arthur gave to Mary2. Mindless: The final moments of Javier Escuella3. Bait: Kieran helps Sean catch a couple of bandits.4. Freeze: John's not so final moments on the mountain.5. Build: Dutch was never much of a builder6. Husky: The sound of John Marston7. Enchanted: The tale of Hosea and his love8. Frail: That's the way it is.9. Pattern: Tilly always had quick hands.10. Snow: Arthur takes Charles fishing.11. Jack visits an old friend.12. Only the good die young.





	1. October 1st: Ring

**Author's Note:**

> For Inktober 2019, I am writing the prompts instead of drawing them.

It had spent most of it’s time in pockets or purses; its golden surface constantly rubbed clean by fabric. It never had a chance to get old; never seen gloriously upon the finger of a loved woman. For over a decade, it remained tucked away and hidden; an unspoken secret that Mary carried with her constantly. It wasn’t shame, it was more like an artifact, except instead of reminding her of some long-lost civilization, it reminded her of a dream. Not her dream, someone else’s, but one that was pleasant enough that she liked to be reminded of it.

Arthur’s dream of freedom had been so naïve, she thought. Freedom is… a tricky thing; powerful and wild and terrifying. Mary was happy with her life, with her little cage as he’d called it. The cage was safe, and she was content, and unlike him, she wasn’t slowly dying. The ring reminded her that she had chosen her life; that there had been some other grand option. She thinks that she had chosen the right one, and it feels nice to have the ring to remind her of that.

Giving it away hadn’t been as difficult as she thought it would be. Seeing him again; facing the harsh reminder of his harsh life; she had realized that the romantic notions she’d had were nothing but that: just notions. Foolish fancy. They’d have had no real life together; the freedom and choice she had put upon a pedestal as some prize she had opted out of was nothing but a dented and rusted trophy. It was not something you’d want to keep around at all. She was never more sure she had made the right decision all those years ago. So, into an envelope it went along with the last remaining picture she had of Arthur. When she had dropped it off at the post office, Mary had felt a little hollow, but she knew it was all for the best.

John fiddled with the ring often in the months and weeks leading up to his proposal. It was strange how such a small piece of metal could be so heavy. He would never forget the weight of it, no matter how many years would pass. Secretly, he cherished it more than anything he could ever possess. This ring was all that was left of Arthur’s dreams and hopes for happiness. The devil could offer him all the riches in the universe; God could offer him eternity, and John would not part with this little piece of Arthur he had left.

Abigail shared the weight gladly, though with less reverence. To her the ring was just the representation, but the ranch and their life was the reality. No matter how much bitterness she would hold in her heart towards John over the years, she never held the ring hostage. She held Arthur’s dreams dearly too. It grew worn on her finger; it became refined and saw more sunlight and happiness in the few years she wore it than in the first two decades of its life.

She took it off when John died. With him gone, so were her dreams and so was her strength and she couldn’t carry the weight on her own. She took what money she had and bought a strong silver chain. She bestowed the ring on Jack with teary eyes. He would be strong enough. He deserved to live Arthur’s dream.


	2. October 2nd: Mindless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final moments of Javier Escuella

The desert seems to stretch on for an eternity. This used to be something he loved; endless sky and endless sand stretching for as far as you could conceive… These days ‘used to be’ seemed to describe every aspect of what was left of the man who was once Javier Escuella. Used to be loved; used to be strong; used to be part of a family; used to be a man… Now he was just a ghost in a land he used to call home; used to dream about every night. He was a husk. He was mindless and empty.

He didn’t know why he had bothered escaping from the Pinkertons. There was nothing left for him anywhere. Only sand and death and emptiness awaited him. He trudged on for fear if he stopped, he might have the strength for thoughts; to think about the nothingness that awaited him. He wished John had just killed him. He wished he had emptied his skull with a bullet, spilling all the thoughts and regrets into the desert sand because then there would be an explanation for the hollowness inside him. After all he had done, he was still alive and Javier knew that it was a punishment and not a blessing.

Finally, his legs failed him, knees slamming into the ground before tasting grit as his head came to rest on the sand and pebbles. The end had come for him; he would finally be finished. Footsteps echoed about in the empty space. As he lay still, he had just enough strength to think of how curious it was… he was alone in the desert but… A pair of boots appeared in his vision. They were fine boots with silver accents that shone in the blazing sun. “Vaquero.” Cooed a voice.

Soft and sweet, had he had the moisture left in him he would have shed a tear at the sound. The speaker crouched down and he saw their… no, **_her _**face. It had been a decade now, but somehow, she was as young and beautiful as the day he had met her. ‘Esperanza’ he had called her. His Esperanza… but she was no longer hope. Not here, in this forgotten desolate place. Dressed in all black, brilliant and terrible, she was Death. “Mi amor,” she said, her voice filling every corner of his emptied mind, “I promised I would be here at the end, didn’t I?”

She looked down at him with pity and affection. He deserved neither. All he could do was reach out and moan. There wasn’t enough left of him for anything else; nothing left for him to say he was sorry, or to say her name, or to even smile at her. He was empty; mindless; a husk; not the man who deserved her. All he could do was feel her hand, soft and gentle against his cheek. Her touch enveloped all of his remaining senses, became his only proof of existence as he seemed to melt into the sand. “Don’t worry, vaquero. It will all be over soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know this is a little bit of a stretch of the prompt but I have always equated mindless with emptiness and I just really also wanted to write about Javier.


	3. October 3rd: Bait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kieran helps Sean catch some bandits.

Kieran cast off, trying his best to look as natural as possible. He’d never been much of an actor. He’d never considered him much of anything, but when Sean asked him to help catch a couple bandits who’d been souring his jobs, he wasn’t able to say no. This was an opportunity to prove he was more than just a glorified stable hand and he was determined to not blow it.

He pressed his finger against the line as he normally would to feel for the tug of a fish, but all of his attention was on listening for the smallest of sounds; the breaking of a twig, the rustling of leaves. Kieran wasn’t a fan of playing bait, but at this point he accepted this as his lot in life. He would have to start at the bottom and work his way up; he had to earn trust before anyone would ever ask him to do any real work.

He glanced over nervously at Sean, who was hidden in the bush nearby. Kieran couldn’t say ‘well-hidden’ as the young man’s hair stuck out like a fire in a field but hidden enough that anyone focused on himself wouldn’t notice him. There was a rustling behind him as someone pushed through the trees. Sean gave him a small nod and Kieran stiffened, staring at the water, waiting to catch a reflection of someone coming up behind him.

There was a clearing of a throat and Kieran started as best he could, glancing over his shoulder with a nervous smile. “Oh, hey there, mister.” He said, weakly.

The fellow wasn’t large, but his companion who stood a couple feet behind him was. Kieran steeled himself. They could do this. Two on two, that was fair, right? The front man nodded to him. “This a good fishing spot?”

Kieran shrugged. “Good as any, I suppose.”

The man frowned and Kieran silently cursed himself. Now was not the time for a smart answer. Carefully, he set his pole down on a nearby rock. Besides Branwen, it was his prized possession and he wasn’t about to let it be snapped in half by a brawl. He turned around to face them, nervous smile hiding the fact that he was actually feeling quite confident. “Can I help you fellas?”

The lead man nodded as the big man crossed his arms over his chest, puffing up and looking intimidating. “Sure is lonely out here all by yourself.”

“Fishing ain’t really a pastime meant for groups. Too much noise, to many lines in the water… It all scares away the fish.”

The lead man grinned, showing his yellowed and gnarled teeth. “Good for us, unlucky for you.”

Before anyone could do anything, Sean had sprung from the bush and tackled the lead man around the middle. The two went rolling away with some shouts and a lot of cursing. Of course Sean would leave him with the big guy. Kieran tensed, ready for a fight. He remembered what Javier had told him, ‘you don’t have to be stronger, just faster’. So he was faster. The big man lunged forward to grab him and Kieran sidestepped him, sticking out his foot and tripping the man. He stumbled forward and fell into the lake. He must have hit his head because red began to leak into the water around him. Kieran quickly pulled the man out of the water with a grunt and a heave, dumping him onto the shore. There was a gash on the big man’s head but he was still breathing.

Sean came sauntering over, sporting a blackened eye, a split lip and a broad grin. He held up a money clip and some trinkets he must have pulled from the other man’s pockets. He nodded towards something behind Kieran. “Aye, Duffy, I think you got something.”

Kieran turned in time to see his fishing pole wiggle and buck before being pulled into the water. He dove after it, soaking his clothes but catching the pole before it could disappear into the lake. After some struggle and a lot of wrestling, he managed to pull in his prize. The perch must have been at least ten pounds and even as he lifted it out of the water, it thrashed and fought. Sean threw his arm around Kieran’s neck and laughed loudly. “It seems we both know how to use good bait!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, it won't always be angst...


	4. October 4th: Freeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's not so final moments on the mountain

Cold. John could spend these moments thinking about regrets or fears, or about those he loved, but really all he could think about was how fucking cold he was. Oh, he could also curse those wolves for not finishing the job. A wheezing whine escaped his throat as he leaned back against the rock face. His world had become pain and snow and hardness and there was nothing else… well maybe there was a little spite. No, there was a lot of spite in him. Spite for the wolves, spite for his stupid horse for throwing him, spite for Dutch for sending him out here, spite for whoever spoiled the ferry heist and caused him to not only get shot but also send them up into this good forsaken place.

His anger would keep him from freezing, at least for a little while. It took a few hours for John to decide he hated snow. He hated how quite it was when it fell; he hated how it soaked into his clothes; he hated how it was making his ass go numb; he hated the way it clung to his hair and made the sticky blood on his face somehow stickier. He’d thought he’d hated the desert and all it’s sand, but he was deciding the snowy mountains were far worse.

It took a few more hours before the anger had boiled away. There was little energy for him to curse at anything longer. He found his mind wandering, thinking of better days, as his head lulled against the rocks. Pain was shooting through his head, making his teeth hurt, the inside of his cheeks hurt. His eyeballs hurt and his skull pulsed, so his mind faded towards the greener pastures of the Midwest. He thought of brighter days and riding horses through fields; of the days of racing through towns like a wild fire and stirring up trouble like a whirlwind.

Here he was, frozen in place, but all he wanted was to move. To be free and run and be gone from this place and to go where ever he wanted to be. Yet, he was stuck here. All John ever wanted was to be free… and this is where that got him: stuck on a ledge, half-eaten by wolves and waiting to freeze to death. It was all so very disappointing. Just as he was about to let his eyes close; about to give in the strange lullaby of the cold that seemed to urge him to fall asleep, he heard someone shout his name.

He blinked, struggling to take a deep enough breath to shout back. He wasn’t going to die in this snow, god dammit. When he heard the sound of their voices, John had never felt such elation. It was like someone was pumping energy into his limbs. It was like a cruel joke, because he couldn’t move, but he felt like he could move a mountain had he been able to stand. When he saw their faces… god, even Arthur’s, it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He blinked them away quickly. Even death hadn’t made him cry, but the promise of not dying on this stupid mountain did. All he could do as they came over to him was smile despite everything and rasp, “Boy, am I glad to see you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as happy with this one, but i'm not going to love every one, right?


	5. October 5th: Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch was never much of a builder.

Dutch never considered himself much of a builder. He had never been good at making things with his hands. Perhaps that was one of the reasons why he’d taken up the business he had. He’d never been good at making things, but he had always been a good talker. Words were always his best weapons, and when they weren’t, he was also a pretty good shot.

Hosea had been a meeting of fate; the winds of destiny swirling them into a whirlwind that brought them closer and closer until they were inseparable. They were a duo; a pair that could twist any arm, could paint any story. Soon they both had a beautiful woman on their arm: Susan, fun and full of a fire that made even Dutch a little afraid at times, and Bessie, lovely and kind and smart as a whip. And then… Arthur.

There was never a wilder creature than young Arthur; raw and afraid and angry, there was something about him that drove Dutch and Hosea to take him in. He grew and forced them to grow with them. So the duo became a trio, and Dutch couldn’t imagine it any other way. Then, along came John. And so it continued. Strauss, Tilly, Swanson, Pearson, Karen, Uncle, Bill, the Callender brothers, Javier, Mary Beth, Abigail, Sean, Lenny, Micah, Jenny and Charles…

It was a quiet evening outside of Blackwater when he sat down next to his oldest friend. Hosea smiled at him over the edge of his book. This was peace, Dutch thought, looking out over the camp, seeing everyone milling about and talking and laughing. Young Jack ran about as the girls circled around the fire gossiping; John and Arthur could be heard arguing; Uncle was telling a very bad joke to a reluctant audience. This was more than Dutch could have ever dream of having the day he had left his mother’s home all those years ago…

Dutch had never considered himself much of a builder, but as he looked down upon a dying Arthur, he felt affirmed in that belief. Dead. They were all dead. Susan and Hosea and Molly and Sean and Lenny and Kieran… and now Arthur. He had built something that he had loved, but it had crumbled. He’d never been a good builder, and they had all suffered for his failures. 


	6. October 6th: Husky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's voice though

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is really short because this prompt was very difficult, I apologize

John’s voice was distinctive. Heady. Raspy. Rough against your skin. The kind of voice that you’d want to listen to for hours at a time. Hearing him talk around the campfire; hearing him bark orders; hearing his shouts from horseback… it was all good. Every word had the ability to make you hot and to make your face redden.

Like sandpaper they called it. Like he smoked a hundred cigarettes; like he chewed on nails. Grizzled and hoarse and so many other unkind words were used to tease John about it. It only served to make him angry, to make him curl his lip in disdain and cause him to talk more. And how could anyone who wanted to listen complain about that?

Compliments on the sound of him were fewer than the complaints, but they were still there. The brave few who could step up and whisper their affections to him did so whenever they could. His eyes would widen, his cheeks would redden and he’d grow silent, suddenly at a loss for words. It was a little disappointing since the opposite affect was desired.

His voice was the kind that could fill your head. It was like he could touch you without his hands. It was rough against your skin, leaving you raw and wanting. Every purr was a growl; every word grinding against you; every syllable like nails dragging down your spine. A whisper could send shivers running through you. A harsh command felt like teeth against your neck.

Tempting and grating and sexy. It was husky and deep and it was never enough.


	7. October 7th: Enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tale of Hosea and his love

Hosea was finding that he was becoming a better dancer. Did it have something to do with her? Dutch was right when he said they couldn’t stay here long, so he was trying to make the most of it. He’d be damned if he didn’t see every smile and hear every laugh he could before they left.

She’d walk with him through the garden, hanging on his arm, whispering secrets at parties; she’d kiss his cheek under the moonlight and giggle when his ears turned red. He was dangerous; he killed men. He was no doubt after her father’s money, but what did she care? She would let herself be enchanted by this handsome sweet-talker and even if he left her with nothing else, she’d have a story to tell.

But he didn’t leave her behind. When he took the old man’s money, he took his daughter too. He was a liar and a thief and a cheat, and he had stolen her heart. She’d stolen his as well, as it turned out. Steadfast, smart and practical, she kept him and Dutch from falling into quite a few messes. She had a head on her shoulders and two helping hands when the had none and Hosea spent everyday wonder what he had done to deserve a woman like her.

The years passed and nothing faded, only grew. Their family grew, Dutch’s dreams grew, and Hosea only grew more madly in love. He found himself buying a ring. Not even stealing, **_buying_**. She said yes when he asked, giving him a sly smile. “Guess I’ll make an honest man of you yet, won’t I?”

He left the life for her. Well, tried to anyway, and to her the ‘tried’ was all that mattered. They tried to be normal folks, they tried to have a family. In the end, they found themselves on the road back to Dutch with itchy fingers and empty hearts. They did end up with the family they wanted, in the end. John and Arthur, even though he was nearly a man himself, never turned away her doting affections. No matter how wild they were, she could always tame them.

Hosea sat at the table at Horseshoe Overlook, finding his mind too restless to focus on his book. He glanced over towards his bedroll and the picture he kept beside it. “Everything alright, sir?”

He looked up to see Lenny sitting down across from him. Attentive, courteous, and polite that boy was, even when Hosea wasn’t kind to him. “Oh, you know,” Hosea waved a hand dismissively, “Just an old man lost in his thoughts.”

Lenny nodded towards the photo. “Thinking of her?”

“There isn’t a time when I’m not.”

The young man leaned forward, eyes bright and full of curiosity. “What was she like?”

Hosea glanced back at the photo again. He couldn’t remember her voice; it had been too long now, but he could still remember the feel of her hand in his and her lips pressed against his cheek. “She was…” Hosea sighed fondly, “Enchanting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry guys, back to angst hours with this one


	8. October 8th: Frail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's the way it is.

He felt as if there was little left of him. He had given all he had; all his love, all his pain, all his anger had all been given away. All that remained of him lay on the side of the mountain and, with shallow breaths, watched the sunset one last time. He could not ask for much more, after all he had done. He’d caused too much pain to deserve anymore than this. He hoped that what he had given John wouldn’t be too much. Arthur knew all too well that the weight of someone else’s hopes and dreams could be crippling.

He thought of those who would carry on. He thought of Charles and Sadie and Tilly and Abigail; of Swanson and Pearson and Mary Beth and… Jack. Oh, Jack. If there was anything he wished for it was that the world would do right by that boy. Perhaps their lots in life had been decided, but at least he would have a chance.

As breathing grew more painful, his thoughts faded from those who lived to those who waited beyond. Hosea and Lenny and Sean and Susan and… Isaac. Every bit of him doubted that he would see them. Him? Awful, terrible, Arthur Morgan? There would be no peace for him in whatever came next. All debts in this life had to be repaid in the next. He had a lot of payments to make.

As the sunlight faded, so did his thoughts. There was little left to think anymore, only to watch the sinking sun and listen to the few birds that had not yet abandoned the mountains for warmer skies. This is all that remained of Arthur. Frail, fearful and alone, he watched the sunlight fade and the sky grow dark. One final breath rattled in his chest before disappearing into the night; fading into nothing just as the light of the sun faded and just as the life faded from him.

It was done. It may have all been in vain, but that’s the way it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm... I'm sorry y'all.


	9. October 10th: Pattern

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tilly always had quick hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No angst. All wholesome.

Tilly has always had quick hands. They’re small hands, use to being dipped into pockets and twirling hair and being clenched into fists since they were even smaller. They weren’t good at being idle. Nimble fingers always itching for something to do. Hosea says it makes her a good thief. Javier says she would have made an excellent musician. Susan says it’s what makes her sewing so lovely and precise. When sewing wasn’t enough, she turned to knitting. She needed all of five minutes of instruction and she had it figured out.

There was a peace to it; a calmness to the patterns that helped ease the turmoil of the world around her. Her hands were as swift as they always were and, even though they were in New Austin, everyone received scarves for Christmas that year. She learned to play cards and dominos but still her fingers itched. Trelawny said she’d make a lovely magician. Mary Beth said she’d be a perfect seamstress. Arthur called her a card shark. Dutch knew better than them all, though, and would send her off when he’d see her fidget. “I want ten watches and find a new necklace for yourself.” He’d say.

Always a challenge; always something that calmed her mind and sated her restless hands. It seemed a sure thing that she would never move on from this life. What could normalcy offer her with hands like these? You can’t pick pockets all the time, so she picks flowers and she learns to best even Javier at five finger fillet. Her knitting patterns became more complicated and as they fled into the mountains, everyone was grateful for her talent for socks.

But in the snow, there was even less to do. She let Molly teach her intricate braids and Mary Beth eagerly let her practice on her. Charles could be coaxed into sitting still for her with the lure of a good fire and some quiet. They came down from the mountains, and sometimes Javier would agree to it as well. Sean required only a couple sloshes of whiskey and he’d plop down in front of her, humming as her fingers were in his hair.

That was years ago now, but the intimacy of those moments remained engrained in the muscle memory of those clever hands. Her husband loved her hands. He’d hold them and kiss them and compliment them. When they itched, he would let them run through his hair. She had three little ones to knit for now. Little ones who required no convincing to sit and have their hair played with; who stared in awe as she pulled coins from behind their ears. They giggle and clap at every slight of hand and card trick; they whisper in wonder at every perfectly picked blossom that passes from her adept hands to their eager ones. It’s a new pattern; one that is welcoming and soothing. Her hands would always be restless, but never again would they be without something to soothe them.


	10. October 11th: Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur takes Charles fishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charthur? Cheesy dick innuendos? Yup. Got it right here folks.

There was a peace to falling snow that hold always set Charles at ease. A tranquility of nature that did not seem to exist in the south. It was cold, but Charles didn’t mind it. Taima hung her head over his shoulder and huffed, breath rising like fog. He scratched here nose obligingly as he watched Arthur dig though his satchel, cursing as he looked for something. Charles couldn’t help but smile at the way the other man’s hat fell down over his face and the way he scrunched his reddened nose in concentration. After a few minutes of struggle, Arthur dramatically produced the lure he had been looking for, holding it aloft and shooting Charles a triumphant smile.

Charles hefted the pole Hosea had let him borrow and followed Arthur onto the frozen surface of Lake Isabella, carefully picking his way through the snow drifts. Was he a little worried about walking across the surface of a frozen lake? Absolutely. Arthur, however, had an uncanny confidence as he slid on the ice towards the water’s edge. “So, you’ve been mailing this guy fish?”

“Yeah, it’s a little strange, I know, but…” his voice wavered for a moment as he lost balance, but he recovered quickly, “It pays well and it’s just fishin’. It ain’t like it’s hard work.”

But it was hard work. At least, to Charles it was. He’d never been much of a fisherman but when Arthur had asked him to come along, it would have been hard to say no. Hosea had been eager to make sure he’d been properly outfitted. “Can’t have Arthur thinking you don’t know how to handle a pole.” Hosea had joked.

Hosea had thought it was funny, but Charles had not been able to escape fast enough. He’d grabbed the fishing pole and actively avoided the old man until he and Arthur had left.

Charles watched Arthur fiddle with the lure before casting. He’d never say it out loud but he often admired the practiced grace Arthur had. Fishing, riding, hunting; Arthur was always cool and calm and moved with the ease of years of experience. Arthur looked back at him. “Can’t catch a fish if you don’t get the line wet.”

Yes. He was here to fish, right. He was not here to just stand and watch Arthur. Charles cast his line half-heartedly and stood next to Arthur. A comfortable silence fell over them. being in each other’s company was familiar and reassuring. Sure, he really didn’t know what he was doing as far as the fishing went, but at least he was doing it with Arthur. The only sound was the quiet lapping of the water against the ice and the rhythmic clicking of the reels. It was peaceful and… happy. It was the only way to describe the warm feeling that was rising in his chest. After everything: all the running and violence and chaos, he had never been so happy as to be standing in this quiet patch of nowhere with Arthur.

There was a tug on his line that brought him out of his thoughts. Mild surprise flushed away all the contented feelings as Charles tried to remember the best way to reel in a fish. A fish. There was a fish. Oh, god, there was a fish. “Snag ‘em.” Arthur said.

“What?”

Arthur demonstrated a harsh flick with his pole. “Snag ‘em.”

Charles did as instructed and began to reel in. Arthur, who had drifted closer, put a hand on his. “Not so fast, you’re likely to snap the line. Go slow.” Arthur’s voice was so calm, so soothing, “Let him wear himself out. You got him on the hook, you’ve got plenty of time.”

Charles frowned and cleared his throat, concentrating on bringing in the fish and not the warmth emanating from where Arthur’s had touched his. There was a definite difficulty to fighting the fish on the ice. There was no good way to stand without sliding every closer to the edge of the water. Arthur continued to talk as he brought the fish in, giving pointers and encouraging words until finally, the fish was close enough that Charles could see it in the dark water. “Alright, give it a good tug and bring him up onto the ice.”

And so Charles did that, his feet sliding out from under him as the fish came up out of the water. Arthur’s arms grabbed around his waist, ensuring that he fell backwards and not into the frigid water. They both landed on their asses as the fish moved through the air, coming down to land at their feet. Charles looked up at the grey sky for a moment, laying partially on top of Arthur, wondering what he did to deserve this kind of embarrassment. Then, Arthur started laughing. It started out as a chuckle, but then grew louder until Charles could feel him shaking because he was laughing so hard. Charles couldn’t help but laugh too. They sat up, covered in snow, both laughing and staring at the fish that flipped around angrily on the ice. “Guess you can handle a pole after all.” Arthur wheezed.

Charles groaned and shoved Arthur’s hat down over his face. “Shut up.”


	11. October 14th: Overgrown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack visits an old friend

The journey up the mountain was arduous. The paths that Charles had described had long been abandoned in favor of new ones, but he didn't mind the extra effort. What was a pilgrimage without a little trial; what would he gain if it was easy? Nothing had ever been easy and this would be no different.

It seemed fitting that he would be all the way out here. Of what little he remembered, he knew that the man had spent days on end riding through the wilds, seeking nowhere and resting under the free, open sky. His final views had been of the places he loved best.

Tall grass hid the ridge, keeping the marker out of sight; maintaining the privacy and sanctity of the spot. He sat down among the blades, letting them brush against his shoulders in the breeze as he studied the words before him. They were brothers with the ones that sat on the hill back home. Fitting. Brothers in life and in death, carrying out the same thought. With misty eyes and a quivering lip, he drew his offerings from his satchel. In his lap he placed the hat and journal he had found in the attic, and the photo Miss Tilly had given him.

Though he could not remember what he sounded like, he'd remember his face; he would forget his voice from the journal he had read so many times now that the words felt engraved on his brain. This man, who had done so much to ensure that he had a good life would not be forgotten.

Wild flowers wreathed the marker, so overgrown that some had become entwined with it, like nature was knotting its fingers to hold up the cross against the elements. The air was chill, but he didn't mind. It was peaceful here. It was more peace than he had known in years, sitting there with a man he could not thank. With a shaking hand, he reached out to touch it. The wood was worn smooth with time and wind and rain. He leaned forward til his palm lay flat against it. Tears streamed down his cheeks.

"Hey there, Uncle Arthur."


	12. October 15th: Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only the good die young.

It was fucking cold. And damp. And dirty. And… a bunch of other awful things. His feet were sore, his back was stiff and every breath rattled in his chest uncomfortably. The whole place stunk of body odor and alcohol… but that was his fault. All this time and he still hadn’t found a nicer place to hide. 

He was stuck here in this frozen wasteland, getting old. He had gold, and booze… but good were they when there was no where to spend the gold and no women to share the booze with? He took a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke burn away the cold in his chest and fumbled with the pack. He’d never understood why they put those stupid cards in them. A silly gimmick for people who had nothing better to do with their lives but collect silly little cards.

In the dim fire light he fumbled to remove the card so he could actually close the cigarette pack. Cold fingers struggled to move properly and he cursed under his breath. When he finally got it out, his heart dropped into his stomach like a rock. There, in the flickering firelight, a youthful, proud face looked back at him. A legend, he mused to himself. Creaky and decaying and dumb and fat… Some legend he was.  
\-----  
Lemoyne was sticky and hot, but she didn’t mind. There was a quiet tranquility to the marsh that spoke to her restless soul. She liked the sounds of the birds and boars during the day and the soft chirps of frogs and crickets at night. She even liked the gator calls, even if they kept her awake. Majestic creatures, gators were. Plus, they kept away the weaker riff raff.

She missed the desert though. The humidity did little for her old joints and she missed the open plains. She missed the peace that only the endless dirt and brush could bring. Gators held nothing to the cry of a coyote under a western moon. She’d be back there soon, she told herself, gather up a little playing money and she’d find herself a nice cabin in the sandy wastes where she could live out her life as she pleased. Bounty hunters would brave gators, but few would brave snakes and scorpions and the scorching sun.

She fiddled with the cigarette pack in her hands, looking out into the foggy, dense bayou. She’d never been much of a smoker. Why waste money on cigarettes when you could buy bullets? This pack had lasted her a month. She pulled out the last cigarette and lit a match with a fingernail. In the dim light of the lantern she pulled out the card that was tucked into the pack before she tossed it. The cards were silly little things, and she had found herself collecting them over the years. She smiled down at the picture, at the image of her younger self. A legend, she thought, now I like the sound of that.


End file.
